


Epilogue

by magifrog



Series: Unknown Frequency [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Adoptive family, Basically an excuse for me to write something set in the 20s, Established Relationship, I dunno how I feel about this but I figured theres people out there who might like a sequel, M/M, general warnings for eldritch horror but we're gonna keep it PG for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magifrog/pseuds/magifrog
Summary: Maxwell wakes up somewhere unfamiliar. Is the nightmare finally over?





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Maxwell was aware of was grass beneath his fingers.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, fearing the worst. Scraps of memory, vague and faded, rose to his consciousness: the codex, the dark throne room, the man who had jumped through all his hoops and ended up the winner of their struggle.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows, fully expecting Wilson to be towering over him, no doubt armed with some smug repartee. Instead, he found himself somewhere… unexpected. Somewhere he hadn't ever been. There were trees surrounding him, yes, but all manner of different species- firs, hemlocks, maples, birches, all varied, all unique. When he had gone about constructing the dimension they had resided in, he had needed to draw upon his memories of the other world, resulting in a lack of variety in the flora and fauna. He had never really been much of a naturalist, and even now struggled to identify some of the plants in front of him.

Maxwell shook his head, attempting to take catalogue of his surroundings. He stood in a grassy meadow, deep in a forest of some kind. His pockets were empty save for a rusted metal key. His codex was nowhere to be found, and he hadn’t seemed to have woken up with any of his magical abilities.

Sighing, he picked a direction and walked, trudging through the brush and fallen leaves that made up the forest floor. If Wilson truly had defeated him, maybe it was no surprise that the landscape had changed. Worse, in the thick shrubbery, there were more places for predators to hide, and it would be harder to run. Maxwell supposed he deserved it. It wasn’t as if he had been very kind to any of his pawns, least of all Wilson.

Wilson, his oldest plaything. Wilson, who he had lured to this world out of sheer boredom, out of some sadistic need for entertainment. Something flickered in his mind for a moment, and he paused, looking at a peculiar tree. Well, three trees, he observed, seeing as their trunks were twisted together in a thick braid, but their roots seemed to spread separately like three underground kingdoms, warring over the soil. Maxwell was suddenly compelled to take a left, some nagging feeling drawing him that way, and he did so, fingering the key in his pocket.

Dusk was falling, but it seemed less impending than it normally did. He supposed if Wilson was interested in killing him, he would shown up in some capacity already. There was nothing, no baying hounds, no ominous shadows, no gloating over his fragile new form. Maxwell paused. There was a structure up ahead, a rickety house that looked as though it had been hastily slapped together. Hardly believing his own eyesight, he moved to wipe his glasses- his glasses? with his shirtsleeve, but the house remained.

He found himself jogging, then running, then sprinting to the door, heart pounding against his ribcage, shaking hands fumbling with the lock.

“Hello?” He entered the hovel, taking off his jacket and tossing it on the coat rack where an assortment of scarves and vests haphazardly hung. The house was silent, but in the sitting room a fire burned in the hearth, casting an orange glow on the stained antique furniture. Not knowing what else to do, he settled on the sofa, taking stock of the many knickknacks and mechanical parts that littered the surfaces of the tables and shelves of the cabinets.

Outside, the sound of a motor rumbled through the trees, and Maxwell rushed to the window. A large, rusted yet intricate-looking automobile parked itself on the dirt path, and a figure clambered out of it. Maxwell’s breath caught in his throat, and he flung open the door.

“Wilson? Wilson!”

“Oh, applesauce, I didn't get the timing quite right, did I? Wel-” Wilson was cut off as Maxwell threw his arms around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the air out of him. “Oof-”

“I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you, pal,” Maxwell murmured, a deep sigh of relief releasing itself as he reluctantly let go of his companion. “Only… why am I happy to see you? What happened?”

“Oh, brother. Maybe we ought to get you inside, and I’ll explain everything.”

 

Wilson had brewed a kettle of tea, and they sat down in the parlor, although truthfully it, like every part of the ramshackle house, was more workshop than living space.

“So we found a way out?”

“Well, yes, sort of. It was more complicated than that, but we managed to find something more powerful, more ancient than Them. If you can believe that. The ancient things didn't exactly like having Them in their territory, and it began a dramatic series of conflicts, and then I had to tap into their power to try and get a line of communication, and all in all it seemed to be beneficial to both parties to have us removed from that dimension. So in essence, They, capital T, lost their vessel and their main means of fighting the ancient things. And _they_ , the ancient ones, sent us back home in exchange for weakening the tumors that had spilled into their dimension.” Wilson paused nervously, regarding the blank look on Maxwell’s face. “Did you… er, did you understand all that?”

“Sort of.” Maxwell stirred his tea, idly crossing one leg on top of the other. “But why don't I remember all this? I feel as though I should at least remember being- being married to you, for all those years, at least.”

“Well… part of you does, doesn't it?” Wilson threaded his fingers together, shifting anxiously. “You died, Maxwell. In a way that- well, we didn't know if you would come back. But you did. You’re here. But I would understand if… you know, if being here, you didn't want to be my husband and all.”

“Wilson,” Maxwell said softly. “I still feel the same way as I did before, I think. I just won't remember much in the way of… whatever we did before I was thrown into the Massachusetts wilderness. It’ll take time.”

“Again, I wasn't exactly fully in control of that. I’m glad you found the house.”

“We are in Massachusetts, yes? What year is it?”

“It’s July of 1928. There was- there were a few years between my return and yours.” Wilson blushed. “I was going to clean this place up, but I wasn't sure when you’d be arriving, and…”

“Nineteen- Wilson, it was only 1906 when I left!” Maxwell put his tea down, cradling his head in his hands. “Twenty years in the future, twenty-two. Charlie must be an old woman by now.”

“We could still find her,” Wilson offered.

“And what would I say? That I’ve found the secret to not aging for twenty years? That I fell into some sort of fairy ring and got spirited away by the goddamned little people?”

“Fair point,” Wilson admitted, shrinking a bit. Maxwell instantly regretted his tone, taking a deep breath to try to regain some composure. “Still, I’m sure she’s doing just fine. When I sent her back, she was right there on the stage, as though nothing had ever happened. I was sort of in her mind, for a few seconds.”

“What of the others? The ones who stayed with us?”

“Well, they wanted to stay together. Willow’s gone to gather her assets or something or other, but she should be back soon. Mrs. Wickerbottom’s got the children in a house not far from here. She has them calling her 'Grandmama’ and enrolled them back in school.”

“And Wendy? How is she?”

“Growing into a fine young lady. I’m not… I’m not quite sure if Abigail came back with her. Sometimes she seems to think so, but…” Wilson brightened a little, standing from his indent in the old sofa. “We should go and visit. I’m sure they’d love to know you’re alright. We did wait two years for you.”

“I’d love that.” Maxwell smiled, finishing the last of his tea, and they were off.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson was glad Maxwell hadn't remembered anything. Truthfully, he had left a lot out of his recollection of the caves: that vast, endless darkness, the labyrinthine floors upon floors upon floors, the incessant chittering of primates in the gloom, beady eyes waiting, watching for the first sign of weakness. He still had nightmares about that place beneath the soil, beneath maybe even their plane of existence, where the ancient thing had called to him in a language he had never heard, yet understood so clearly.

He had bargained for their lives… or maybe pleaded was a better word. The thing that lived in the underbelly of Their place had been formless, vast, like looking through a telescope at the spaces between stars. It had looked at him deep in those caverns, regarding him as a cat might regard not even a mouse but a puny flea, as though he was a miniscule parasite simply leeching off of its immense life force. And the evil within him had all of a sudden dried up, and he’d been alone, truly alone-

“Wilson!” Maxwell’s voice jolted him from the memory, and he swerved out of the grass and back onto the road.

“Sorry. I guess I let my mind wander a bit.” Wilson relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re almost there. It’s that one there, with the red roof.” The house was slightly less run-down than Wilson’s, and it was surrounded on all sides by a smattering of different plants. Willow had recommended they start to grow food for the coming economic hardships, and they had restored the old victory garden from the Great War to its former glory.

Wendy rose from her perch on the front steps and ran, barefoot, up to the automobile as Wilson shifted it into park. “You’re back!”

“Wendy,” Maxwell beamed, clambering over the side of the car to hug her tightly. “You’ve grown so much, I can hardly believe it.”

“Well, I am fourteen now. Grandmama says I ought to try going to high school in the fall. And Webb- er, Wilford, that’s what his new name is, he’s in the fifth grade already. Although he hasn’t been keeping up with his studies, so Grandmama’s making him do summer classes with her...” Maxwell let her go on, unable to keep the smile off his usually stony face. Wendy’s British accent was all but gone, and she slurred her words in the same poiseless manner as Wilson, now, but her voice was still light and melodious as it had been. The vague memories of some encampment they’d lived in flashed through the back of his mind, and he remembered her and Webber playing in the pond, the pink of twilight bathing everything in a wash of color.

Ivy Wickerbottom appeared in the doorway, stern and stoic as she’d always been, but her angular features betrayed joy beneath her prickly demeanor. “I may be a stickler for punctuality, but I’d say two years is a bit unreasonable.”

“Fashionably late,” Maxwell corrected her. “And you still don't look a day over sixty.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Carter,” Wickerbottom said flatly, turning instead to Wilson. “Wilford’s been asking about you. He insists on you helping with his… science experiments.”

“What can I say? The boy’s a born entomologist.” Wilson grinned and grabbed Maxwell by the hand, pulling him inside. “He cleaned up nicely, too, although it took some adjusting.”

A young boy ran down the stairs, and it took Maxwell a moment to realize the boy was indeed Webber. Truthfully, he had forgotten there had been a time before the boy had encased himself in the exoskeleton, a twisted survival mechanism Maxwell had applauded at first, before it began proving more difficult to kill him. And, god, he had tortured this child, this wonderful ray of light that stood before him, coated in a thick layer of grime but beaming ear to ear as though none of it had happened. He sank to his knees, hugging Webber to his chest and mussing up his hair.

“Wow, Mister Maxwell, you really missed me, huh?” came his muffled voice.

“I think he’s a bit overwhelmed. Remember, we were too when we first got back, seeing your real face.” Wilson placed a hand on Maxwell’s back soothingly.

“I’m so sorry, Wilford,” said Maxwell finally, pulling away but staying at eye level with the boy. “I should never have done the things I did.”

“You already apologized a hundred times. Don't worry, we all know it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Well…”

“That’s right, it was just an unfortunate series of accidents and, er, bad decisions,” Wilson cut in, giving Maxwell a meaningful look. Yes, perhaps it wasn’t fruitful to try to explain to a ten-year-old the foolish arrogance and hubris of trying to harness a power much more devilish than yourself. Still, Maxwell felt as though he still owed the children a lot.

“Why don’t you help me out with pinning my bugs? I accidentally took the leg off of my dragonfly,” Wilford frowned, clearly distraught.

“I’ll bet I’ve got a way to reattach it,” Wilson offered, taking the boy’s hand. “Come on, Ford, let’s go have a look.”

 

Pinning insects wasn’t a hobby Maxwell would ever have chosen, but he observed with a morbid fascination as the others painstakingly attached the little corpses to the corkboard.

“This one’s named Stripe, ‘cause it’s got these blue stripes. I kinda wish I could keep live ones, but Gran doesn’t like it when we bring animals in the house.”

“I have a feeling there’s a good reason for that,” Wilson chuckled softly. The bedroom was aglow with the soft yellow light of early evening, and it was small, cozy, but not cramped. Maxwell leaned back in his armchair, watching as his husband- his husband, what a comforting thought- opened up a large book filled with sketches of various specimens. “A Tule bluet. I’m surprised you caught this one, they’re fast.”

“I’m fast too! ‘Sides, I got a lot of practice back when we had to hunt for fireflies all the time. I don’t catch them anymore though, since they stop lighting up after you kill ‘em.” The budding biologist’s face fell. “I just don’t like that part of it, even though it’s for science and all.”

“It’s a necessary evil,” Wilson said, patting Wilford’s shoulder. “At least this way, we can learn about them instead of them ending up in the belly of a toad or the gullet of a bird.”

“I guess that’s true.”

The light waned from yellow to pink, and finally the three of them ventured back downstairs.

“Are you two staying for dinner?” Wickerbottom asked as they filed into the kitchen. “I’m making scalloped potatoes.”

“Please stay! Please?”

“Well… I can hardly say no.” Maxwell turned to Wilson, who nodded in approval.

“Where’s Wendy?” Wickerbottom turned her attention from the pan on the stove. “Probably out on one of her walks, I suppose. Ford-”

“I’ll get her!” The boy bounded out the door and off of the back porch, his thick hair flopping about as he ran in clumsy, uneven strides.

“You know, it almost feels as if I never left, strangely. This is what it felt like, isn’t it, when we all lived together in the little village?”

“Yes.” Wilson faltered, then slipped his hand into Maxwell’s. “Under different circumstances, I might not have minded an eternity of that. Of course, Ivy had us do our own cooking.”

“For good reason! Between the two of them,” she said, gesturing out the back window, “our food stores were gone in a day or so. I do admit I’ll be happy when they’ve left their growing appetites behind.”

“You should see the amount of flapjacks I’ve seen Wilford scarf down,” Wilson laughed. “We might be in real trouble when he hits adolescence.”

The children appeared in the doorway, but immediately Maxwell noted the tears in Wendy’s eyes, her small frame shaking like a leaf. Her eyes darted to him, then to Wickerbottom, wide and dark and full of fear.

“Grandma?” she whimpered.

“Wendy! What happened to you, child? Come here, come here.” Wickerbottom leaned down to wipe her tears, rubbing her shoulders. Wendy’s voice was barely a whisper as she struggled to answer the question.

“S-something happened in the woods. Something terrible. I don’t think we’re- I don’t think we’re safe here.” She steadied herself, peering over at Maxwell with a look that made something in him break a little bit. “Something came here from the other world.”


	3. Chapter 3

Wendy idly picked apart a daisy from the backyard, letting herself process the last few hours. Uncle William was back, the same way he’d been before their foyer into limbo, and yet he was still very much Maxwell still, some pidgepodge of the man she dimly remembered from her childhood and the man she'd grown to adore in the little village they’d dwelt in all those motionless years. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt. She had presumed him dead for two years, despite what Uncle Wilson and Grandmama had told her- adults seldom just  _ told _ you these things, after all. The part of her heart that had belonged to her uncle had been bricked up in that time, and she wasn’t sure how to undo it.

Abigail floated into her mind, and she sighed in relief. Her sister always had good advice, even with having stayed twelve for the past two years. She supposed she wasn't one to judge, having been twelve herself for decades at one point.

_ I missed him, _ Abigail whispered through her mind.

_ I did too,  _ Wendy thought back,  _ but I sort of got used to not having him around. And, I mean, I like the way it is now. With Grandmama and Web- Wilford and you, our little family. _

Abigail fell silent. She wasn’t gone, exactly. Wendy could feel her, the outline of a girl, sitting in the back of her brain, watching and studying.

It had been that way since they had come back from limbo, as she and her siblings called it. Wendy couldn't exactly remember what it had been like before that, at least not after Abigail had died and before Uncle William- or, Uncle Maxwell, now- had swept her into a different realm. She assumed the two sharing a body was a new development, but realistically it felt more as if they had forever been that way, nestled cozy in the many folds of Wendy’s brain.

Deciding to put a little space between herself and the commotion inside, Wendy let her feet wander where they felt like going, leaving the meticulously weeded gardens for the thick brush of the forest beyond.

There was a tree that Wendy liked to climb, usually with a book in hand, that lie between her house and Wilson’s. The three twisted trunks gave her ample footing, and there was a perch big enough for her to sprawl comfortably at the top where they branched off of one another. She set to climbing it now, her bare feet gripping the bark so much better than her shoes would have. When summer ended, the shoes would have to go back on, and there would be less time for playing. Wendy seldom played the same way Webber did, but nevertheless she felt as though time was slipping away, and she would miss the ancient tree and her reading spot, listening to birds quarreling in the leafy canopy.

Something felt wrong today. The birdsong she had been yearning for was absent, the forest so quiet and clear that she could hear the brook a hundred yards away.

Unsettled, Wendy shifted on her perch, trying to comfort herself by softly singing a lullaby she vaguely remembered from childhood: 

_ “ _ Angels of all fears disarm thee,

no forebodings shall alarm thee,

they will let no peril harm thee-"

_ Stop!  _ Abigail cried, and Wendy clutched her head at the volume, nearly slipping from the branches.

“Abby, w-”

_ Not a word. Don't move a muscle. Something's with us. _

Wendy tensed, electric fear creeping up her spine in a way it hadn't in two whole years.

Then, she saw it. Through the foliage, something stalked in the dying light, tendrils grasping at the twigs and leaves, stripping the trunks of their bark as it passed. Even at this distance, its eyes were clearly visible, bright points of light in a void-black body, ever twisting.

_ Why is that  _ thing _ here? How did it come here? It shouldn't be here-  _ Wendy thought, mind racing almost faster than her brain could handle.

_ Hush! I don't know if it can hear us in here. Please, please be quiet, Wendy… _

The beast crept closer, and Wendy prayed very quietly to any god that would listen that it would not look upwards. Her lungs screamed for air, but she dared not take a single breath. Beasts like this had eaten her more times than she cared to count, but this- if the creature consumed her here, she knew in her heart there was no coming back.

After eons of listless wandering below, the beast crawled its way into the undergrowth once again, and Wendy couldn't help but notice the color had drained from every torn shrub and trampled wildflower it had touched, leaving a distinct brown trail through the forest. She knew it was not enough. It would search for miles and miles until it had found flesh- and at that thought, the image of rows and rows of black teeth illuminated only by torchlight- that inky cavern of the beast’s throat- it all rushed back to her, and she held back a sob.

Steadying herself, taking deep breaths at last, she noted the direction the creature had wandered. It had gone east, away from Uncle Wilson’s and too far north to come across Grandmama’s, with any luck.

Paranoid more than ever, she slowly climbed down, checking every few seconds that the black shape still lingered far in the distance. Breaking into a sprint, she ran home, finally allowing the tears to fall from her eyes.

 

After the children were safely upstairs with their bowls of potatoes, Wickerbottom climbed back downstairs, taking a seat by the fire and preparing to discuss the situation with the uncles.

This was something she had feared- that the endless terrifying chapter of their lives had not yet come to a close, and she feared less for herself than she did for Wendy and Ford. Although in her former life she had never desired children, she had come to love them as if they were her own, authored a hundred bedtime-story worlds for them to get lost in as they had waited for Maxwell and Wilson’s return from the caves.

“What do you suggest we do? In the past, the creatures only bothered us when our mental states were weakened.”

“Well…” Wilson scribbled in a little commonplace book that he kept in his pockets. “Wendy said that it was turning the plants brown, right? And rustling the leaves? So it must at least be tangible. We might be able to dispatch it the same way we would a wild animal.”

“Why would it come here?” Maxwell asked, clearly distressed by its sudden arrival. “It might have followed me somehow, because of…”

“Nonsense,” interjected Wickerbottom. For all the issues she took with the man, she had a bit of a soft spot for him deep, deep down. “If it was the king they were after, we would have seen one with Wilson when he came through. It’s probably utter randomness, some bad luck on our part.”

“My hypothesis- or one of them- is that it might have interfered with the process of teleportation.” Wilson tapped his pencil against the notepad. “That might be why you got here so much later than everyone else. Of course… it probably came here as a matter of survival, since I doubt whatever’s happening in the other world is very… pleasant.”

Wickerbottom nodded. She had heard the tale of the great vast force lying deep beneath the surface of their little realm, waiting to be awakened. Wilson had managed to grant them all passage, though from what she knew about such deals there was no doubt some price they were bound to pay, in the end. She had been, to use a rather morbid idiom, waiting for the axe to drop since they had arrived.

“The question remains: is the shadow beast that came through the, the veil, for lack of a better term- is it the only one?” Her question hung in the air for a moment.

“That would be a nasty trick. The other world’s full of shadow vermin, so the- the  _ thing _ dumps them all here?” Wilson paused, then shook his head. “No, I don't think that’s it. Although we should probably figure out how to get rid of the one we have, and maybe set up some kind of barricade in case of others.”

“I seem to recall a certain ingenious scientist constructing quite a few different traps.” Maxwell smiled at Wilson flirtatiously, and inwardly Wickerbottom rolled her eyes.  _ Like newlyweds,  _ she thought to herself.

“Yes, I remember foiling a certain, ahem, evil magician’s plots on a couple occasions.” Wilson grinned.

“In that case,” Wickerbottom interjected, “why don’t we all set them up first thing tomorrow morning? It’s late, and you two should certainly go and check on the house.”

“What about you, Ivy?”

“I’ve never been a delicate flower.” Wickerbottom gestured to a gun mounted in a glass case over the hearth. “I’m more than capable of chasing the thing off if it comes within even a mile of the children.”

“Point taken.”

She wished them well and watched as the rusty old Model T rattled up the dirt road, staying at the front door until the lights had faded well into the distance.

Then, she took out the pistol and loaded it, cocking it back as though embracing an old friend, and having shooed the visitors out of her home, she curled up in her armchair for a long night of reading.


	4. Chapter 4

“I should make us some dinner, since our visit was cut short.” Wilson unlocked the door after they had made a cursory check to ensure nothing had followed the car through the woods. “That  _ is _ something we still have to do here. Feed ourselves.”

“Oh, trust me, I haven't forgotten that part of it.”

“You might be happy to know I’ve brushed up on my cooking skills. No more berry soup,” Wilson joked, remembering all those nights he'd made the questionable dish. Maxwell chuckled, evidently able to remember the same thing. “I was thinking… I could make a stew, and I still have some bread that Wendy helped me make.”

“That sounds lovely.”

The dinner was relatively quiet. Maxwell complimented him on the stew, but fell silent after that, leaving Wilson to his anxieties. Something was different, and Wilson couldn't yet tell if it was the sheer overwhelmingness of it all, or if something was wrong, if Maxwell had suffered more than merely jumbling his memories.

“I… I think we should talk,” Wilson managed finally, stirring what remained of his stew. “I know everything today was a lot to process, and I know that you’re probably exhausted. But I think we should talk.”

“Wilson, if this is about how I feel, I told you, that hasn’t changed.” Maxwell took a cloth out of his pocket almost habitually, scrubbing at his glasses uncomfortably. “I just need some time to get used to this. It’s not every day a man travels simultaneously through time and space.”

“It’s not that, although I appreciate it. A lot, actually. That was number two on the endless list of things that worry me.”

“And number one?”

“Maxwell, you… you died. I mean- you died fairly permanently, I thought. The entity we found, it attacked us. Whatever nasty immortal force that was in me saved me, barely, but you…” Under the table, Wilson's fingernails dug into the his forearm hard enough to break the skin.

“I’m here now, Wilson.” Maxwell stood and walked around to Wilson’s chair, separating fingers and arm and taking both hands into his. “I promise, I have no intention of leaving.”

“That’s not it, either. I know you wouldn't- not after everything we’ve gone through. I trust you maybe a little more than I probably should. What I mean to say is… I need to know what you remember about the caves. I need to know that it didn’t hurt you the… the way that it hurt me.” The last words came out in a raspy whisper, and Wilson found himself looking at their joined hands, trying to fixate on the gesture.

“What?”

“I don't know. I paid the price for our return, I- I didn't- I haven't told anyone besides you. It wasn’t-” Wilson tried to pry himself away from the memory. 

It had only taken an instant, realistically, in human time, but he had stayed with the creature millenia in its mind. 

He had watched in that fraction of a fraction of a second the massacre of civilizations, the screams of a billion strange lifeforms, the sounds blending together into some type of fiendish symphony- and then, he had seen the creature itself, a mass of tendrils and gaping, hungry mouths. 

And he had seen the scars on the beast, the angry pale marks. 

And he had known, in that instant, that he was a pawn, that this devil would come, when it was finished with its meal in the other realm, it would cross the physical space between their universes, and it would eat their planet, too. Not in his time, no- he had his life, as was promised- but forever he would know, between him and that great god of hunger, what he had done for that freedom. What the price of him, and Maxwell, and the children, and all the others would be. How he had sacrificed the many to save the few.

 

When Wilson came to, he was lying in his bed, a wool blanket over his legs. The first sound he processed was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and for an instant he panicked before Maxwell appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of tea.

“Are you alright?”

“Not really.” Wilson attempted a small smile, to laugh it off, but he suspected it came out as a grimace.

“Here.” Maxwell knelt at his side, offering him the drink.

“I never thought of you as the caring type, you know. I mean, before we got married and all.” The tea was warm, and soothed Wilson's body into some degree of security. “Even without the whole killing me over and over thing. You were just so reluctant.”

“Bear in mind, Wilson, the last person I cared for as much as you tried to kill me.”

“I tried to kill you too.”

“Honestly, I would be hard pressed to find someone who has  _ not _ tried to kill me at one time or another.” Maxwell settled onto the bed beside him, folding his arms over his chest. “More to the point, I hurt Charlie. Badly. I imagined myself a king, thought I needed a queen. She didn't like the prospect of it, at the beginning, joining Them and signing herself over to eternal damnation. But she did, because she loved me. She trusted me.”

“So you didn't want to do that to someone else.”

“No. It was hard for me to begin to love you because of that. I was going to lose you, eventually, probably due to my own folly. But once I had allowed myself that first tender thought…” Maxwell pressed his shoulder to Wilson’s, the way they had slept eons ago in their little tent. “I couldn’t help but let myself let you need me. You know, that was why I always aimed for the fame and fortune of the stage. Nobody needed William Carter. No one wanted  _ him _ .”

Maxwell sighed, and Wilson reached over, taking one of his hands.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Maxwell squeezed his hand.

“Could you tell me a story? Maybe about being a magician? Those were always fun. Might help… keep my mind off of certain things.”

“Well… let’s see, I… before I had even an inkling of what my life was about to be, I knew I was meant for the stage. Working at the university, poring over the works of Shakespeare, and Sophocles, Molière- I lived in those books, pored over them, recited the lines a thousand times in front of the mirror.”

“So why didn't you become an actor?” Wilson asked, although of course he had heard the story many times before.

“Well, the company I tried to join disagreed with me on the matter of my… talent. I could recite the lines, yes, and I connected to the characters, but my body didn't quite portray the emotion the scenes required.” He waved a hand. “It wasn't long before my desire for the stage diminished, to the point that I had put all my books away or returned them to the library.”

“And then you found the book,” Wilson murmured.

“And then I found the book. Say, I’ve told this one before, haven't I? I could think of something else to tell you.”

“No, I like hearing about your life. It’s interesting, the circus and the travelling through Europe and all, it’s something I could only dream about.”

“You could still go, you know. You and I could go.”

“Maybe after all the trouble’s over. I don't want to leave Wickerbottom to take care of the children all alone. I  _ am _ still a gentleman, at least, if nothing else.”

“Hmm.” 

“So tell me this,” Wilson pondered, resting his head more comfortably on Maxwell’s chest and tucking his arm around him. “Why did you agree to sell your soul away, anyways? You didn't want fame and fortune  _ that _ much, did you?”

“Are you familiar with the phrase, 'boiling the frog?’” Maxwell asked, lightly letting his fingers rest on Wilson’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s scientifically inaccurate, a frog will inevitably jump out once the temperature hits-”

“For the sake of the story, suppose it’s a sound idea.” Maxwell continued. “The codex didn't open with the blatant evil, signing my soul away to Them type of thing. It merely promised me a gift, supernatural abilities that would astound my peers. And then, when I grew bored, or frustrated with the ringleader, or felt powerless, it opened me up a little more. Preyed on my weaknesses, until I was ready to agree.”

“But you didn't expect what would come  _ next _ ,” Wilson said in a hushed, overly serious tone.

“Who’s telling the story here, me or you?” Maxwell laughed. “Yes, I didn't realize that it would swallow myself and Charlie up the very next time I used it. I very much thought of it as a friend even more than a possession. But, that was that. You know everything else.”

“True.” Wilson paused, thinking of the friendly voice he’d heard on the radio all those years ago. Or really, chronologically, it had only been two- but regardless, he thought back to when Maxwell had been a crackling voice of encouragement, keeping him company through long nights of fruitless experimentations. “You know when you used to talk to me through my radio?”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever think, back then, about…?”

“About?”

“Just about… me. Being with me, er, just- with all the time you spent listening to me and all, I…” Wilson’s face was rapidly turning a pinkish color.

“Sort of. I thought you were incredibly darling, although it was more in a… condescending sense.” Maxwell grinned devilishly, angling Wilson’s flustered face into a more visible position. “Did you think of me that way? It was only a week or two you knew me that way.”

“I may have… pictured… a handsome gentleman trapped inside of a magic radio, yearning to be free and… well, be my assistant, and, you know. Eventually maybe something more.” Wilson frowned, embarrassed. “Of course, then you broke my heart into a hundred pieces, and I spent the next couple centuries giving you payback.”

“I’m sorry.” Maxwell’s face fell.

“That’s alright. You weren’t exactly you then.”

They lay together on the bed, each mulling over a separate set of thoughts. Wilson idly ran his hand over his chin. He needed a shave.

“We need to deal with the abominable horror we have on our hands now, in any case.” Maxwell spoke up, breaking the silence. “What type of firepower do people in the twenties have, anyway?”

“Quite a bit, if you have a mad scientist on hand.” His lips quirked into a smile, tension breaking.

“My own Doktor Frankenstein.”

“Look, I’m a little older and wiser. I can proudly say my days of failed reanimation are over. And my, er, days of successful reanimation.” An image of the horrid meat figures he had constructed flickered into Wilson’s mind for a moment. “It’s probably for the best.”

“Alright then. Come morning, you can show me all the trappings of modern science and we can figure a plan to get rid of the thing.”

“Alright.” Wilson hesitated, then carefully planted a kiss on Maxwell’s jaw, his face prickling as if it was the first time he had ever done it. Two years was nothing in the scheme of things, but he still felt nervous, even if it was partially anxieties that had risen from his latest deal with the devil.

Maxwell only smiled in that wistful way he always did, and pressed a soft, tender kiss against Wilson’s mouth, one that made him melt a little bit.

“I love you so much,” he breathed, propping himself up and taking off Maxwell’s glasses, combing his slender fingers through the only barely-greying hair.

“I love you too,” came the answer, as it always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Updates may or may not get a bit more sporadic, I have a pretty busy work week ahead in addition to putting together a campaign for D&D. I do have an ending planned for this however, and I'm gonna (eventually) get it all written out. Thanks so much for sticking with this story, it's been very therapeutic to write and the response has been amazing. <3


	5. Chapter 5

The sun had been up for quite some time when Maxwell rose, and he sat up a bit precariously, fumbling for his glasses. His clothes from the day before lie rumpled on the floor, and he realized now that he had been wearing an old stage outfit the entire day, a gaudy, ridiculous thing with sequins sewn into the overcoat. Sighing, he pulled the pants on and buttoned the shirt, not bothering to tuck it in, and left the vest and jacket where they lay.

Everything was still very muddled, although sleep had helped. Trying to reconcile the memories of his distant past, his reign over the Constant, his more recent self- it was difficult, to say the least, to put himself together in any sort of meaningful Maxwell-like shape. Or, was he even Maxwell anymore? He had obviously physically returned to the body of someone he’d been eons ago, as if none of it had happened. Part of him longed to pretend it hadn't, to run away back to England and lose himself in old memories. But here he was, in 1928, with his husband- who he loved, he reminded himself- and there was no sense in trying to chase his past.

“Say, you wouldn't happen to have a cigar…?” he sleepily mumbled as he came down the stairs.

“Oh, I don't smoke.” Wilson was frying something up, and the savory scent made Maxwell’s mouth water.

“It’s a shame. That was one of the things I missed most.” He pressed a quick kiss to Wilson’s temple, yawning and taking a seat at the battered kitchen table.

“We’ll go into town soon and get you some. And some clothes, I hadn't thought to put away anything for you.”

“In your defense, I could well have been dead.” Maxwell traced his finger around a deep gouge in the wood of the table, wondering for a second which invention had left it. “Although… if I had been?”

“I don't like to think about that. Well, I tried not to.”

“What would you have done?”

“I- I don't know. Why all the morbid questions this early in the morning?”

“Getting a head start, I suppose. We  _ are _ set to mercilessly kill an abomination before the day is out.”

“That’s fair.” Wilson scraped the ham and potatoes out of the frying pan, portioning them somewhat evenly onto two plates. “I don't know if I would have really moved on, if you hadn't finally appeared. Partially because I love you more than I’ve… ever loved anyone, really, and partly because there really isn’t anyone like us in this town. Not to my knowledge, anyway. It’s all so… secretive and stifling after the way we used to live.”

“So it isn't much different?”

“Well, maybe in the cities it’s more liberated. Boston, for sure. But time moves slower in little towns like this one.”

“At least it’s peaceful. I thought I was tired of nature, but it is rather lovely here.”

“It’s a bit different when it’s real nature. I’m no Thoreau, but I was thinking of maybe reacquainting myself with the local wildlife, once this is all over. It’d be nice to be able to make things for the sake of making them, and it couldn't hurt to be able to hunt and fish, considering Willow is convinced we’ll all starve next year.”

“A blessing and a curse. She’s prepared now, but she still has to live through the worst part of her life again.”

“Feeling wistful?” Wilson asked, mouth half full of potato. “It sounds a lot like you wish you had that chance.”

“Maybe.” Maxwell poked at his breakfast, irked by the observation. “Don't we all wish that?”

“You don't have to feel guilty anymore. We all love you, and Charlie… she doesn't remember anything that happened. She’s free.”

“It still happened. And I wish it hadn't. I wish I could forget, or change it, but I hurt- well, I literally hurt everybody I know.”

“It’ll take time to get back to where you were. You had sort of worked this out, but I think having your mind jumbled up-”

“I don't need your reassurance,” Maxwell cut in, in a tone he half regretted. “Actually, I don't feel like talking about it anymore.” He rose, putting his plate in the washbasin and ignoring Wilson’s concerned looks as he climbed the stairs to get his shoes.

He always regretted snapping, but if there was one thing Wilson excelled at it was treating people like they were machines to be fixed and optimized, trying to delve into problems that were too emotional to solve the way he wanted to.

It wasn't his fault, but it was something Maxwell couldn't help but feel frustrated with. He needed space, solitude to deal with his turmoil, the way that he had learned to while he had been on the throne. What he didn't want was the poking and prodding, fiddling and tweaking, like his feelings were merely grinding cogs in some automaton. 

He supposed when he was in a better mood, he would voice it in a way that felt less confrontational. For now, though, there was a monster to hunt, children to protect, so he merely put his socks on, then his shoes, and let out a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been two months since I updated! It's been a busy spring for me but I'm excited to get back into writing this, even though I am taking it a little slow for now. Thanks for sticking with it!


	6. Chapter 6

In truth, Willow felt bad about the whole thing. True, they would have abandoned her anyway, but her parents up until the Depression had been, if not kind souls, at least not cruel ones.

But here she was, raiding the cellar for the moonshine she knew her father had illegally brewed, that liquid gold sloshing in its jug as she loaded up her battered automobile.

She had to wonder where she was now. Not the person she was now, twenty-three and dressed to the nines in her low-waisted dress and her brown cardigan, hair cut to her chin in the twenties fashion she had grown to adore. It was her child self she wondered about as she hauled the heavy jugs. It seemed unlikely that the younger Willow had just ceased to exist, but the ramifications of meeting herself, years in the past… Well, it was something out of Wilson’s theories and hypotheses (what was the difference, again? She could never remember.)

Her reverie was broken by the sound of a gunshot firing a short distance away.

“Shit,” Willow breathed, allowing herself one precious curse word before she dropped the jar she’d been holding and made a break for the car. No doubt it was her father come to defend his stash from the would-be liquor thief.

She slammed the cellar door shut, hurrying to the nose of the car and winding the crank as fast as she could, pumping with her left arm until it stung like it was on fire. She could hear the footsteps coming nearer and nearer through the thicket. Just in time, she leapt into the cab before a bullet nicked the trunk of a tree above her.

Mr. Walter Barnham reloaded as she fumbled with the pedals, steadied his aim, and paused. Blood drained out of his face, leaving his usually beet-red complexion more akin to a corpse’s.

“Willow…? Sweetheart?”

The automobile plunged forwards, narrowly missing the tree, propelling itself like a startled beast down the unkempt backroad.

The last Willow ever saw of her father was that single look of mixed terror and disbelief.

 

Wendy and Wilford had begun setting up defenses around the garden. Wilford, ever eager to get his hands dirty, dug a shallow trench, and Wendy sharpened branches with great contempt, hammering them in at an angle and covering the wooden points with brush and leaves in the hopes the beast wouldn't notice until it was too late. All of this was futile, of course. But it would buy them precious seconds when it came time.

_ It will be at night, _ Abigail whispered, trembling, from within her mind.  _ They were always stronger at night. It won't know the difference between here and there, so it'll strike come sundown. _

Wendy hoped that was the truth. They were only about two thirds around the perimeter, and the uncles were in town. Abby always had a knack for battling the monsters, though, even if she now seemed more fearful than she had in the other world.

_ If you die, I die _ , came the answer.  _ Wendy, I don't want to again. I don't want you to die either. Or our brother. Or Grandmama. _

It was strange. Wendy all of a sudden felt very much the older child, the burden of responsibility settling over her like a dark, soggy cloud. She was the only one with a physical body, she was the one to make the decisions. It wasn't something she liked. It reminded her of the days she’d spent on her own, frostbitten, debating whether she would let the darkness take her swiftly or allow the cold to settle into her core until she fell into eternal slumber.

“Look!” Wilford’s ecstatic shout cut through her morbid recollections, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Hmm?”

“Nightcrawlers! A bunch! I bet when Uncle Wil gets back, we can go to the pond and catch something good with these.”

“Ew,” said Wendy, but she crouched to look, fascinated, at the squirming worms anyways. They were as thick around as her thumb. “I’ll go grab a bucket for 'em.”

Wilford nodded and stuffed them into his pocket for temporary safekeeping, abandoning his spade and digging instead with his hands for the maximum harvest.

Ford didn't exactly remember much about the time before his life as Webber, but he reckoned bug-catching had been in his blood. Sure, he didn't have to eat 'em anymore, but he liked the thrill of the hunt all the same. Finding a species he’d never seen before or a good patch of bait like this one filled him with a warm, triumphant feeling. It was hard not to be excited even with the threat of a shadowy monster looming over them. But then, he was a- what was it Grandmama had called him? A polyglot? Plymouth hen? Well, he'd remember it later. 

The point was, he was optimistic to a fault, as Uncle Max had pointed out in the old days. But it was hard to not be cheerful when he was among his human family, especially considering his spider-mother had probably eaten his spider-father shortly before he was adopted into the arachnid one. As long as nobody was trying to eat him, Wilford figured, it was a good day.

Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly the case.


End file.
